


What's in a name, anyways?

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Nausea, Some Fluff, Specific Warrior of Light, Unreliable Narrator, discussion of guilt, discussion of..... triggers? I think?, i didn't even realize that's what i was writing until near the end, it's fairly balanced, miqo'te warrior of light - Freeform, nothing too graphic but it's there, some angsting, some vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 19:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13219164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: Sometimes, it can be difficult to move past something that arguably didn't affect others too severely.It's kind of worse when that something is a friend's surrogate sister's name.(Set in some ambiguous party near the very end of Stormblood)(reading of other works in series not required)





	What's in a name, anyways?

**Author's Note:**

> There is some description of nausea and vomiting, but it's only a few sentences here and there.

After he speaks with the Word of the Mother, Ikael feels a dead weight settle in his chest. Thancred storms off, and all he wants to do is say, _I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ , but he can’t. Thancred had said _Whatever it takes_ and he can’t look at him, because, well, he hadn’t done anything, had he?

He doesn’t go and look for Thancred. He wants to.

He can’t. He bows his head and listens to Alphinaud’s naïveté.

It’s his fault.

~*~

He wants to offer Thancred a word of support after he knocks Emmanellain to the ground in an angry blow, but he gets as far as a hand on his shoulder before they are moving on, to the next goal.

His heart bleeds for his friend. He wants to help him. He feels guilty that he can’t.

~*~

Thancred says Minfilia’s name with a tentative smile after the grand melee, and Ikael feels his stomach drop even as he reflexively returns the expression. He wants to check up on Thancred, see to his wounds personally, but he is waved away. More important things, Thancred says. He is needed.

Ikael still worries. He sees Hilda speak to Thancred later, sees her arm brush his. Ikael sends a chirurgeon his way anyways.

He tells them not to tell Thancred that the Warrior of Light sent them. He wants him to accept the help.

~*~

They speak to the Word—to _Minfilia_ again, and the Warrior of Darkness’s words find Ikael’s heart like an arrow. _One life for one world_. He is right. It isn’t too high a cost. It isn’t—

Ikael should be the one in their place. In her place. He is not—he is not that special. They don’t really need him. There are others. He…

It should be him that is leaving. It should be him that is sacrificed, that would be given unto Darkness to restore balance.

The Scions stand by him for a sense of protection. So he will not die. To fight the Ascians.

It is a superficial cause. It should be him.

~*~

They must hate him. They must all hate him. They do not. Things happen, and he is never the focus.

Still, he hasn’t spoken much to Thancred since that first night in Matoya’s cave. He does not dare to. Ikael does not avoid him, but he does not meet his gaze more often than not.

Thancred must hate him. He calls him _friend_ casually and things seem normal, but if Ikael ever looks too deep into those eyes—eye, now—he knows he will see rightfully placed blame.

He does not look.

~*~

Papalymo sacrifices himself. Yda screams and bangs her fists and cries, and then she is Lyse. She does not blame Ikael. Ikael loves them all, dearly. Still, he holds his breath, feels relief when Papalymo’s death lies on him only as heavily as all the other deaths that happen around him, because of him, but there is nothing sharp to connect it this time. He knows he is being selfish, that he cannot run away from guilt, even if he hasn’t directly caused this one. He knows that although he can’t have put himself in Papalymo’s place this time, there will be a dozen more opportunities where he can.

For one night, he tries to forget that.

The next morning, he catches a whiff of Minfilia’s perfume and the familiar weight is settling back in his chest.

~*~

Zenos throws Ikael into the dust and Ikael almost wishes he had killed him. He is too weak… too weak, and they all died.

They go to Doma.

Every time Alphinaud or Alisaie come near danger Ikael’s heart leaps in his chest. He puts himself in front of them when he can. They meet Gosetsu and Hien, and they are all a strong team, and Ikael feels himself almost relax for a moment.

In the Naadam, he feels the soul of every Xaela he kills as it leaves its body. Even the Dotharl.

Gosetsu is holding up the remains of the roof that has collapsed around them. He is struggling to breathe. Pain is lacing through his every word. He cannot last long.

It should be _him_.

~*~

Zenos kills himself.

Alphinaud still does not understand. Ikael hopes, selfishly, that he never will.

Thancred mentions Minfilia by her former name. Ikael is jarred so violently back to that moment that he feels like he might throw up.

Yet, Thancred is smiling, and it’s the most genuine Ikael has seen him since he had said _Whatever it takes._ Ikael is glad that it is because of happiness this time, and not desperation.

Still, the selfish, selfish fear of finally seeing the hatred in Thancred’s gaze comes back, and Ikael is slow in making his rounds. He is finally forced to turn to Thancred after Alphinaud stops yattering about his ridiculous worry that Ikael resents them for any reason.

Thancred tells him that their armies were following Ikael. That he is a natural-born leader. The praise feels hollow.  

He does not want to be a leader. He wants people to stop dying because of him.

It’s his fault.

~*~

It goes like this:

Ikael is sitting on the edge of a wall, overlooking the festivities. He cannot join in—every time someone congratulates him or thanks him their words hit him like stones. He has managed to escape, for now. He is trying not to be noticed.

Someone says, “Getting to be a bit too much?”

He turns and sees Thancred, smiling slightly at him. Ikael makes himself chuckle and say, “Aye, a little, I’ll admit.”

“I’m just glad it’s not all going to your head,” Thancred teases, and seats himself next to Ikael, swinging his legs over the wall. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asks.

Ikael shakes his head.

They sit in silence for a while, listening to the music and the sounds of laughter and cheering drift up to them. At one point, someone sets off fireworks. Ikael feels the corner of his mouth shift upwards as he eyes red sparks exploding in a smoke-filled sky—he is glad that they are enjoying their freedom.

Thancred drums his fingers on the stone. Ikael’s ear shifts to catch the sound. He knows enough now to easily be able to tell when someone wishes to talk to him—it has happened often enough. He wonders what is on Thancred’s mind, hopes that nothing is troubling him.

Thancred says, softly, “I wish Minfilia could be here to see this.”

Ikael’s stomach plummets like a stone. He swallows around the strange feeling in his throat, scrambling in a panic for something to say.

Thankfully, his reputation of silence means Thancred apparently does not expect him to reply. He continues, “She would love it. To see all of these people gain their freedom… and all thanks to you.”

Thancred looks over at Ikael. His smile is warm. “She would be so proud of you,” he says, and everything about him is too mild, too peaceful.

Ikael feels nauseous. He forces his gaze to be steady, takes a readying breath to prepare himself to speak. His fingers tightly grip the stone beneath them, and he says, “I was not alone.”

Thancred glances away to laugh lightly. He seems to be in unusually high spirits. He says, “Now, do not be modest. Between the two of us, you did most of the work.”

He winks. Ikael manages to say, “She would be proud of you too.” How he can manage to grit the words out through his teeth he doesn’t know, but he does. He swallows back his rising nausea.

Thancred goes still, but then gradually relaxes. No, he—melts. “Thank you, Ikael,” he says, and his smile is _still_ too soft. “I don’t know if I deserve it but… I hope I can live up to that standard.”

Ikael tries to focus on stifling whatever sense of inadequacy and insecurity Thancred must be feeling, rather than the turbulence in his stomach. Thinking about it will only make it worse. So he says—

He needs to help Thancred. Thancred can’t feel like this—it’s Ikael’s job to make sure his friends are doing alright. And so—

“Tell me about…” Her name catches in his throat. He says, “Ascilia,” instead, because that feels different enough that his stomach doesn’t roll.

Thancred seems to appreciate this, if anything. His eye crinkles as he smiles, and he looks away, chuckles after a moment.

“You wouldn’t believe how we met,” he says, and he starts to weave Ikael a tale.

Ikael tries to pay attention, and mostly succeeds. Thancred _is_ a bard, after all, and if anything else, they are good for their stories. However, with every passing minute, every fond anecdote, Ikael feels more and more ill. He tries to regulate his breathing, tries to force himself to meditate on his chakras. It always helps to calm him down if he is feeling anxious.

It doesn’t.

Thancred seems to notice he is not listening after a while, perhaps because Ikael’s knuckles are white and his jaw is clenched so hard he feels the pressure in his skull. Thancred says, “Ikael?”

The sound of his name startles Ikael, and he loosens his jaw and immediately forces his throat close as he feels the contents of his stomach stir.

Thancred asks, “Is aught amiss?” but Ikael does not trust himself to form words safely and so cannot answer him. He stares determinedly at a tree in the distance, _willing_ himself to focus. _Calm down. Breathe._

Something touches his arm and he gasps, and that one single intake of air is so, so small yet he feels dizziness start to rise in him, feels the death grip of his knuckles weaken.

Someone says “Are you quite alright? You look ill, my friend. Ah, perhaps you should take rest. Minfilia would always tell me—”

Ikael immediately feels salty saliva flood his mouth and bile rise in his throat. He has a sudden moment of clarity, and he shoves Thancred’s arm to the side before lurching forwards over the wall and vomiting.

He is aware of Thancred making a surprised noise, and then two hands are holding Ikael steady as he heaves, keeping him from toppling over the edge, which he very nearly does. _Wouldn’t that be a heroic way for the Warrior of Light to go_ , he thinks sardonically.

He pauses after a minute, breathing heavily, and Thancred adjusts his grip so he can rub Ikael’s back firmly. “Wait for it to pass,” he says, and so Ikael tries to.

He throws up twice more, but then he feels empty and dizzyingly light, and Thancred helps him as he staggers to his feet. “Sit down,” he orders.

Ikael complies, still feeling dazed, and fists a hand into Thancred's shirt to steady himself before he realizes what he’s doing. He chokes out a scratchy, “sorry”, releasing the fabric.

Thancred settles his arm securely around Ikael’s back, probably so he won’t fall over. “No need to apologize,” he says, and then a waterskin is being offered to Ikael. He blinks at it, nonplussed.

The waterskin waves at him a bit. “Drink,” Thancred tells him, sounding amused.

Ikael takes a few even breaths, and then accepts gratefully, rinsing his mouth before taking a sip. He can feel the liquid slosh into his empty stomach.

He hands the waterskin back to Thancred, thanking him. Thancred nods, and says, “Do you wish to see a chirurgeon?”

Ah. Ikael closes his eyes. He cannot say that he is not actually sick, that—

“No,” he replies, opening his eyes. He looks somewhere in the direction of Thancred's nose; he does not want to be rude. “I… ah… I apologize for that.”

“You are under a lot of stress,” Thancred says. It almost sounds sympathetic—Ikael dismisses that fleeting thought. “Not just now—constantly. As I said, you have no need to apologize.”

Oh gods is he wrong about that. Ikael breathes out shakily, resigning himself. He knows that he has to say it eventually, not for his own sake, but for Thancred's. He… they _all_ deserve an apology, and up till this point Ikael has been to much of a coward to give one. He knows Thancred hates him, but most of the time he can shove that knowledge away and put himself in the false land of superficial taunts and teasing, of the word “friend.”

(He thinks Thancred says his name.) He cannot… he cannot _do_ that anymore, though. Thancred deserves to know of his remorse, deserves to get peace, even if it means that Ikael will drown in guilt and self-loathing every time Thancred looks at him with rancor finally clear and unhidden in his eyes. But Thancred has been so… so happy tonight, and he’s opened up about _Minfilia_ and—

The wave of nausea is so strong Ikael reels forward and dry heaves.

_Oh._

Realization hits him like a blow from a hundred tonze cannon.  

Any doubt that Thancred will not hate him evaporates. Even if he did not before, he _definitely_ will now.

_Oh gods._

“Ikael!” Thancred sounds alarmed. Ikael’s mind feels dull. Thancred is pawing at him, turning his shoulders around to face him. Ikael feels weak, enough that he knows if he tries to stand he will fall to the ground, and so he manages to sit upright. He drags his eyes up to somewhere on Thancred's face.

Thancred's lips press together briefly, and he says, “You need to get some rest. It will not do to have you collapsing from exhaustion on the night of your glorious victory, after all.”

Ikael manages to choke out something of a laugh. He thinks it is a joke, at least, but he must be wrong because Thancred's mouth goes in a flat line. Ikael tries, “Tis not exhaustion, Thancred. I just… ah. I think it is just something I ate. Give me a moment and I will be fine.”

“Mmhm,” Thancred says. “… As you say. Be glad I am not Alphinaud, at least—I do not think he could even be near you vomiting like that without going quite green himself.”

Ikael tries a chuckle. “Sea sickness is not a fault worthy of derision,” he says, “At least, that is what he keeps trying to convince me.”

Then he steels himself. He needs to do this. “Thancred,” he says. “I….” He takes a breath.

Thancred seems to sense the shift in his demeanor. He lets Ikael go so he can see him properly, but he remains close enough to catch him should he sway. Ikael is grateful.

“First of all, thank you,” he begins, after he knows he can get all the necessary words out. “Uh, for dealing with me right now. It can’t be pleasant.” He waves off Thancred's reflexive assurance that it is fine. “No, honestly. But that’s not what… I wanted to… I _need_ to say something. About… all of this.”

Thancred, for once, is silent, waiting for him to continue.

Ikael averts his gaze automatically, then forcibly drags it back up. He cannot run away from this. The eye contact sends a jolt through his system. “Ever since… well, since Ul’dah, honestly. The banquet. There’s been something—I just need to…”

 _Come on_.

Ikael draws in a deep breath. He says—

“I am sorry.”

Thancred tilts his head oddly, and waits, apparently for Ikael to say something more.

He doesn’t. Thancred starts to look confused. “For what?” he asks.

For _what_? “For… for everything,” Ikael says, blinking. “For all of this,” he waves his arm around in a vague gesture. “Everything I’ve done, ev—everything! What do you… everything that I’ve done wrong! You know what I mean.”

“You haven’t done anything wrong, Ikael,” Thancred says, and then frowns when Ikael actually laughs at that.

“What are you talking about?” Ikael says. Then, _Oh._ “You…” He does look down, now. The difficult part is over. “You don’t have to do that,” he mumbles. “It… it is kind, but I don’t deserve it. I’m an adult; I can handle a little anger. I won’t hold it against you, I swear.”

There’s a pause, and when Thancred speaks, he sounds even more puzzled than before. “What in Hydaelyn’s name are you talking about?” he asks. “Why would I be angry with you?”

Guilt rams into Ikael with the force of a tidal wave. Gods, is Thancred making him spell it out? He… okay. That’s fair.

“Because of everything,” he bites out, and that is when his voice starts to shake. “Because of all I have done, everyone I’ve killed—everyone who has _died_ because of me. Because of… of Papalymo, and Gosetsu, and, gods, for _you_ , I’ve—I’ve—she—f-for _her_ ,” he cannot even stammer out the thought of her name without feeling dizzy, “I-I-I, I’m so _sorry_ , I know you—oh gods—I know you _hate_ me and I know it’s all my fault and it should have been me instead of them, instead of all of them and, fuck, I’m sorry I’m so sorry I shouldn’t be here I should be _dead_ and, a-a _million_ times over but I’m not and _I’m_ here instead of _them_ and that’s wrong and I feel _horrible_ and if I could take their place I would, I swear, and I—”

Ikael has to stop to drag in a jittering breath through his lungs, then, and before he can barrel on with his nonsensical apology, a hand that is not his own claps over his mouth. He glances over at Thancred's blurry image before he can help himself, and—

Thancred looks—shocked. Genuinely shocked. He loosens his hand enough for Ikael to be able to breathe through the gaps in his fingers, but each time that Ikael almost manages to get a coherent syllable out he tightens his grip and Ikael stops.

Ikael’s tears are gathering on the skin of Thancred's hand and a few run down, but Thancred himself doesn’t seem to care. He simply stays there, unmoving, and after a while Ikael blinks away enough moisture into his eyelashes so he can see Thancred more clearly. He tries to dart his gaze away before he can make out his eye but Thancred says,

“Look at me.”

And so he does, with an almost inaudible whimper.

Thancred… does not look—

Angry.

It is a miracle, but Ikael knows that as soon as he confesses to the reaction he gets from hearing… her name, Thancred will hate him so much he will not be able to push it aside, and he—

“Stop _thinking_. Gods, Ikael.”

He is jolted out of thoughts. Thancred—Thancred's face is… soft? Almost… almost tender.

Ikael does not deserve this. _He does not deserve this_ , he thinks as Thancred cautiously removes his hand, then relaxes when Ikael obediently says nothing. _Gods, he is so sorry_.

“How long have you been carrying all of that?” Thancred asks.

Ikael starts. Thancred—Thancred sounds—no, he—

His voice is _gentle_. Of all the ridiculous things. He keeps going, says, “Ever since _Ul’dah_?” and adds, “By the Twelve,” in a quiet voice.

He is _smiling_. Ikael does not understand.

Thancred looks at him for a long moment, and his face softens further. “You do not have to feel such guilt. I don’t—” He pauses. It is not a break; he seems to be contemplating whether or not he should continue his sentence. He shifts, closer to Ikael, extends a hand slowly, as if he is approaching a frightened deer. Ikael is confused as Thancred's hand squeezes his arm and remains there.

“Take a moment,” Thancred says, still in that same odd tone. “Be calm. I am not angry. Breathe.”

Ikael does as he says, trying his best to calm his breathing. He does not know what is going on.

Thancred says, “Alright. I would tell you to sit down, but, ah. Well. Ikael, first of all,” He ducks his head so that they are at the same level, “I do not hate you. I never have.”

Ikael croaks out a strange noise, and feels his tail flail wildly behind him. Thancred is—he is lying—he—no… he isn’t—what—

“Shh, it’s alright. See? I thought I should start with that, since it is, in my opinion, the worst veritable sin on your list. Do you honestly think that I could hate you? Come on—I had one extra drink at the tavern the other day and you baked me a pie. I have never met someone else so mother-henningly generous.”

 _I’m not a mother hen_ , Ikael thinks ridiculously.

“As for the rest…” Thancred looks somber for a moment. “I know that I alone cannot relieve you of your guilt, as that is for only you to allay, but know this: The Scions do not blame you for anything. _I_ do not blame you. The only person whom you have wronged who needs your forgiveness, Ikael,” he taps Ikael’s shoulder, “Is yourself.”

“Hh,” says Ikael.

Thancred smiles. “Ah, and I feel as though your martyrdom shall never fade, but I can guarantee that we have never even considered the thought that your life should ever be the one sacrificed instead of… well, whomever. Who would bake us feel-better pies, then? Who would offer an intrusive supply of hugs?”

Thancred is being… he is being inane. What…?

“You’re so,” Ikael mumbles, and clears his throat. “You’re such an idiot.”

Thancred beams at him. “Are you saying you do not wish for a hug right now?” he says. “Are you _sure_?”

Ikael… doesn’t want to specifically deny any desire for a hug. He mumbles something that sounds like a grunt.

Thancred—Thancred _laughs_ , says, “Now those ears are perking up,” and then Ikael is being engulfed in a hug, and he—hiccups, which means he will start crying again at any minute.

Thancred murmurs, “Do not underestimate your worth, Ikael. You are a very dear friend to all of us. And we do not blame you. For anything.”

Ikael starts crying.

“You are also so strangely emotional sometimes it is a wonder you get any primal-slaying done at all,” Thancred says, and it is probably lucky that Ikael is in no frame of mind to pay direct attention to his words.

Thancred says something else, perhaps, he isn’t sure—Ikael senses his mind cloud over, feels warm and a bit better than he had ten minutes ago, and—Thancred smells nice; he has a nice smell, and Ikael feels very tired and drowsy all of a sudden, the events of all of these past months finally having caught up to him.

He doesn’t see Thancred's blink of surprise when he slumps weakly into unconsciousness.

~*~

Ikael awakens on a cot in what he blearily recognizes as a tent, from a look around. He can still hear people celebrating outside, closer than they had been before, but still muted. He has been loosely tucked in, but the blanket is thin given the heat of the region. Thancred must have brought him here—Ikael feels a surge of gratefulness. He needs to make his favourite food sometime soon as thanks.

He sits up, rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes. The thought of food makes him realize how hungry he is, but the thought of Thancred—well.

Ikael believes him, trusts that Thancred would not lie to him like that. He will always blame himself, he knows, because it _is his fault_ , but… knowing that the Scions at least do not hold it against him even when he could have done something…

It helps.

Ikael lets out a slow exhale, and it turns into a sigh. Perhaps it is because they feel the same guilt as he does, or perhaps it truly is because of his feel-better pies (which he will not stop baking, thank you), but whatever the reason, he is too tired to give it much thought. He can later, maybe, when he stares at his secondary soul crystal and dwells on all of his mistakes, but not… not now.

His ears pick up a shuffling of cloth that signifies someone entering the tent, and he opens his eyes. Thancred enters, and smiles at Ikael when he sees him, coming to kneel by the bed.

“Good, you’re awake,” he says. “You really do need to get more rest, my friend. I invite you again to imagine what it would have been like were I Alphinaud—the poor boy can barely carry his sister, let alone you. Although I admit, it would have been amusing to watch.”

Ikael snorts. “Not for me,” he says. Then he stills, and has very little difficulty in looking Thancred in the eye this time. “I still need to say something,” he tells him. “And this time, it is honestly very probable that you would hate me for it.”

“I am sure you think that about everything,” Thancred replies, but there is something in his gaze that contradicts the light tone of his voice.

Ikael says, “I need to tell you. About why I was sick earlier. The thing is, I…” Thancred is looking at him calmly. “… I have… feelings. I mean—obviously, we all have feelings, I’m not implying that anyone doesn’t—that’s absurd—I mean, ah. I, uh… well.”

He should get this much out clearly, at least. Thancred and… they both deserve at least that.

Ikael tilts his chin up. “Sometimes, I think I remember things,” he says. “Certain words, or… names remind me of… events I’d rather forget. I still get so… _angry_ when someone mentions the Heaven’s Ward—there’s only ever one member I think of when they are brought up. And, uh, now, with one name in particular there’s a lot of… a lot of shame and guilt associated with it. It’s only recently, when you began talking…”

Ikael trails off. The urge to look down is overwhelming, and he has to grind his teeth together to resist it. He loosens his jaw, prepares to keep speaking—

“Ikael,” Thancred says, “It’s alright.”

Ikael shakes his head. “It is not,” he says. “I shouldn’t… it’s wrong. You deserve… sh—ah, sh-she deserves…”

“Stop, before you throw up again,” Thancred says, reaching forward to—steady him, which is a surprise. Ikael hadn’t noticed he had started shaking. “Don’t think about it. Think about… er, pies. Make yourself one after this, alright? So you can feel better.”

Ikael holds out his hand in front of him, forces it to stop trembling. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I-it’s just too soon, I’ll try this again in the morning—”

Thancred shakes his head. “Tis not your fault. You were obviously affected by… all of those events very strongly, and even if you weren’t, an involuntary reaction is _not_ your doing. You do not have to think about it anymore than you want to.”

Ikael frowns at him, confused. “Does it not make you angry?” he asks. “I mean, you cared for her dearly, and I’m just being so… disrespectful, even if I don’t mean it—it must make you resent me at least a little.”

Thancred sits down on the cot next to Ikael. His brows are drawn together, and he looks serious, but not upset.

“To tell you the truth,” he says, “I had some suspicions that Min… ah—sorry—that that particular name, or at least some mention of the surrounding events, were affecting you, ah, negatively. I admit that those suspicions were brought to mind tonight, but I was too engrossed in my own reflections to pay much heed to you. For that, I apologize; I should have stopped talking when I realized you were becoming uncomfortable.”

He holds up a hand when Ikael opens his mouth to comment. “No, really. I _did_ notice, but I was being selfish. It is… a trait that people tend to let manifest around you, Ikael—I am honestly worried that one day you will injure yourself gravely because someone asked you to gather aether readings that could only be achieved by jumping off a cliff. I have tried my best to not take advantage of you, but,” He sighs, and is the one to look away this time, “I gave in, I suppose. For that I am very sincerely sorry.”

Ikael squints at him, thinking. “I… want to be there to listen to you,” he says slowly. “You are my friend. You are all important to me—I don’t refuse to help not because I cannot, but because I hold no desire to.”

“Still, I could have gone to someone else,” Thancred argues, “Or waited for a better time. At the very least, I should have realized that what you were feeling was far more severe than any rejection I would have faced had you not listened.” His face softens into a smile, then. “I will endeavor to do so in the future,” he says, “since your self-preservation instincts are apparently nonexistent.”

Ikael gives a small sigh, but accepts the jibe and lets himself laugh a little. “So you do not hold it against me, then?” he asks, looking up at Thancred in quiet earnestness. He wants to be sure. “It would make complete sense if you do—I would understand.”

Thancred shakes his head. “I hold nothing against you, my friend,” he says. “And if I ever do, I promise to go to you and attempt to resolve the conflict solely through violence, since it is a language you are oh so fluent in. And then you shall win, and so you won’t start crying and force me to talk about my feelings for half a bell.”

“You are being so cruel to me,” says Ikael, faking a sniffle, but the effort is dampened by his growing smile.

Thancred squeezes his shoulder and then stands up. “Get some sleep. Honestly,” he says. “You are physically exhausted, if nothing else. I will come back in ten minutes and drug you if you are not unconscious.”

“Low blow,” says Ikael, lying back down. He closes his eyes as his head hits the small pillow. It is lumpy, but he _is_ tired, and he cannot bring himself to care.

“Thancred,” he murmurs, and his voice is already drowsy, “Thank you.”

“I expect an excellently-cooked meal as recompense in the morning,” is Thancred's reply, and Ikael drifts off to the sound of him exiting the tent.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> I feel like for Ikael personally, thinking that he should be the one replacing Minfilia and balancing out Light/Darkness in a way that would make Elidibus possibly leave the Scions alone is something that he would feel very, very guilty over. The fact that no one points this out as a possible solution in the game (most likely because they wouldn't even consider it) probably just makes it worse for him.  
> and he's too much of a weenie to say something lol


End file.
